The number of times Irene Adler has followed any kind of order given to her are, as expected, few and far between. It has little to do with her (previous) chosen line of work and everything to do with making her way in the world by whatever means she deems fit. But there will be no argument or contradiction tonight regarding their fleeing Karachi. There will be, she is certain, no detail left to chance. It goes without saying that Sherlock Holmes has a brilliant, sharp mind. He would not have come to her rescue without a tightly mapped, carefully laid plan to accompany it. For that reason alone, Irene Adler knew she was - well, neither of them were safe by any means. But in this Jeep, speeding through the dark of night, they had the best possible chance.
She accepted the tin without hesitation, tucking it between her knees to open the lid. The scent of the naan reminds her it's been days since she last ate anything (her captors had not been concerned with that, only providing small bits of food and sips of water to keep her alive, yet weakened for her execution). Irene Adler has enough sense to know eating too quickly after a period of time without could well result in a wildly upset stomach. As the world speeds by outside she eats, the gnawing in her stomach she had come to ignore abating one moment at a time. Her right hand still keeps hold on the pistol in its place, but no one is speeding up behind or beside them at the moment.
When Sherlock springs from the Jeep, it's clear they are changing cars. Irene replaces the cover on the tin and tucks it into the curve of her arm, changing the pistol to her other hand only long enough to open the Jeep's passenger door. Her feet hit the ground a second later and she hurries to the Audi without hesitation. For a second she is allowed her first full look at him, severe in black as dark as the night around them, hair tousled from the robes and eyes sharp with purpose. The smile that came to her on the tarmac when she first caught sight of him reaches not only her mouth but her eyes as well.
"Thank you, Mister Sherlock Holmes." Her voice is the same as it was moments after he'd unlocked the combination to her safe and they made short work of the American intruders in her home (Thank you; you were very observant). She slips into the passenger seat, the tin of naan and pistol held safely in her lap. Flyaway strands of her hair peek out from the cap on her head.
Thank you had not been merely for holding the door for her; a far greater meaning was behind those words, but this was absolutely not the time for anything other than following Sherlock's plan. For now, Irene asks her first (and perhaps only) question of the night.
no subject
The number of times Irene Adler has followed any kind of order given to her are, as expected, few and far between. It has little to do with her (previous) chosen line of work and everything to do with making her way in the world by whatever means she deems fit. But there will be no argument or contradiction tonight regarding their fleeing Karachi. There will be, she is certain, no detail left to chance. It goes without saying that Sherlock Holmes has a brilliant, sharp mind. He would not have come to her rescue without a tightly mapped, carefully laid plan to accompany it. For that reason alone, Irene Adler knew she was - well, neither of them were safe by any means. But in this Jeep, speeding through the dark of night, they had the best possible chance.
She accepted the tin without hesitation, tucking it between her knees to open the lid. The scent of the naan reminds her it's been days since she last ate anything (her captors had not been concerned with that, only providing small bits of food and sips of water to keep her alive, yet weakened for her execution). Irene Adler has enough sense to know eating too quickly after a period of time without could well result in a wildly upset stomach. As the world speeds by outside she eats, the gnawing in her stomach she had come to ignore abating one moment at a time. Her right hand still keeps hold on the pistol in its place, but no one is speeding up behind or beside them at the moment.
When Sherlock springs from the Jeep, it's clear they are changing cars. Irene replaces the cover on the tin and tucks it into the curve of her arm, changing the pistol to her other hand only long enough to open the Jeep's passenger door. Her feet hit the ground a second later and she hurries to the Audi without hesitation. For a second she is allowed her first full look at him, severe in black as dark as the night around them, hair tousled from the robes and eyes sharp with purpose. The smile that came to her on the tarmac when she first caught sight of him reaches not only her mouth but her eyes as well.
"Thank you, Mister Sherlock Holmes." Her voice is the same as it was moments after he'd unlocked the combination to her safe and they made short work of the American intruders in her home (Thank you; you were very observant). She slips into the passenger seat, the tin of naan and pistol held safely in her lap. Flyaway strands of her hair peek out from the cap on her head.
Thank you had not been merely for holding the door for her; a far greater meaning was behind those words, but this was absolutely not the time for anything other than following Sherlock's plan. For now, Irene asks her first (and perhaps only) question of the night.
"Where to?"